


Love Me Tinder

by andavs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andavs/pseuds/andavs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To save the kingdom from a curse of unending winter, Derek is sent by his king to retrieve the mythical Firebird of legend—who turns out to be less of a mythical creature and more of a probable criminal who has no interest in being retrieved by anyone for anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me Tinder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsagiStilinski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsagiStilinski/gifts).



> For asagi-s-garden/AsagiStillinski, who wanted a fantasy AU, spark!Stiles, humor and fluff in a fic but more serious or romantic art, “I enjoyed our date, by the way I’m a werewolf”, and bamf!Stiles saving Derek—so I went big and put as many of those into this as I possibly could. It kind of got away from me so I hope you enjoy it even though I didn’t stick to the original plan at all!
> 
> Art by me!

If Derek had any sense of self-preservation, he would’ve arrested Stiles the second the stranger tripped through two large snowy evergreens with that distinctly illegal sort of glint in his eye and a wicked grin.

Or when his greeting was a slightly breathless, “there’s a ton of royal hunters out here, so if you’re not exactly on the ins with the kingdom, I’d suggest beating feet before they beat you.”

Or when he’d pointedly avoided answering the question, “are you saying you’re on the outs?” Because that was a very criminal-esque thing to do, wandering the forest and avoiding royal hunters, and Derek really could’ve saved himself a hell of a lot of trouble in the long run had he just knocked the guy out and dragged him back to the city.

He would’ve missed out on a few hours of grating chatter (that he would never admit to enjoying) and a horribly inconvenient crush on a probable fugitive (that he would deny to his deathbed), but it really all would’ve been easier. Far easier.

He was the Head of Security for the royal family, that really should’ve been his priority.

But instead he found himself stuck in a barely tolerated but still very enjoyable back-and-forth with the probable fugitive, defending a plan that wasn’t his and that he himself had originally objected to, and simultaneously wanting to beat Stiles over the head but also kiss him for seeing the obvious flaws in the plan, independently and with absolutely no guidance from Derek at all.

“But the Firebird is a fairy tale.” Stiles repeated for the third time after Derek had let slip his frankly idiotic mission.

Derek agreed with him wholeheartedly, but as Head of Security of the royal family (not that he’d told Stiles that), he had to support his king. However delusional he may be.

“Fairy tales are often grounded in truth.”

“That would be a very old truth. That story is hundreds of years old; even if it were true, you would be looking for an old as shit bird.” Then Stiles added with a shrug,  “or a corpse.”

“Either way, we don’t have the option of not trying.”

Alright, King Christopher wasn’t so much delusional as desperate, Derek knew this. The death of King Gerard five months ago, while bringing freedom and safety for a number of supernatural beings hiding under his rule (Derek and his fellow werewolves included), also brought with it a number a serious issues that were a nightmare to fix: great debt, poorly maintained roads that absolutely destroyed any wheel passing over them, a number of now-unemployed workers whose main jobs had been supplying the unending war effort that had finally ended, and a curse of ceaseless winter that no one knew the origin of or reason for.

The debt, roads, and unemployment rate could all be fixed with regulations. The cursed winter, not so much. Thus the reason Derek was traipsing through the snowy forest, being steadily buried by constant and heavily falling snow, seriously considering resigning from his position after not even six months.

Stiles just looked intrigued by that, though his heart was beating a little faster and a littler harder than he had been before mention of the Firebird, nerves Derek couldn’t understand the reason for.

“Then the rumors are true. This isn’t a natural winter.” Derek’s face must have given him all the answer he needed, because he continued. “And they think the Firebird will somehow fix this?”

“It’s possible.” Derek didn’t want to give any definite answers should this entire thing fail and send them all to snowy ruin. “It brings good fortune to people and lands in the stories, if it can be caught.”

“And how does one catch a Firebird?” Stiles asked with a slightly patronizing tone. There was a badly hidden and mocking smile forcing its way out, his eyes alight with amusement. “Pile hot coals and ash in a cage and slam the door when it wanders in?”

“According to legend,” Derek explained with forced patience a tone that really didn’t hide his disbelief, “it can be found with an ice sprite. They’re drawn to attack it whether they can win or not. They see it as a threat to their territory.”

The mocking glint flickered out of Stiles’ eye as his heartbeat quickened again, a reaction not uncommon when it came to ice sprites. They were creatures known for indiscriminately “pranking” whoever they happened upon, but their pranks usually ended in hypothermia, amputated limbs, or frozen death in the wilderness only discovered in the spring.

But even though Stiles’ apprehension—not yet fear—was audible to Derek, he didn’t show it on his face. Instead he just squinted and frowned, obviously not impressed with the plan or anyone instrumental in its formation.

“Your solution is to stalk ice sprites on the off chance they might lead you to one particular bird?”

Yes, it was probably just as doomed to fail as it sounded, but they really didn’t have any other choice. This unnatural winter was already encroaching in on planting season, and given the usually moderate and reliable climate, no one was prepared to have to wait out the snow for this long. People were already working through what they’d been able to ration.

“The forest is crawling with the very best hunters and their sprites.” Derek assured him with flimsy confidence he didn’t feel and that clearly didn’t convince Stiles. “We’ll find it eventually.”

“And where’s _your_ ice sprite?” Stiles paused pointedly, listening to the silence of the forest around them. All Derek heard was the loud and quick pulse of his nervous heart, though he refused to show it. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost it already.”

Derek tried not to remember too vividly his last encounter with an ice sprite and the very close brush with a frozen death it ended in. Not even werewolves were immune to their pranks.

“I try to avoid ice sprites whenever possible.” He summarized shortly, and Stiles raised an eyebrow in interest. There was no way he was going to get anything else of that story. “The other hunters don’t have the same aversion. I’d stay home until the search is over—you make so much noise, I would hate for you to be mistaken for a wild turkey.”

He just received a flat look in response. It somehow didn’t surprise him that Stiles was used to receiving thinly veiled threats.

“Why do you think I’m out here in this weather?” He waved a heavily gloved hand along the string of the bow across his chest. “I know I don’t have the rough and rugged stubble of a _royal_ hunter, but I thought my intention was pretty clear.”

Derek returned the flat look he’d received a moment ago.

“You don’t look like _any_ kind of hunter, royal or otherwise.” Stiles frowned in confusion and looked down at his heavily layered outfit that made him look large and stocky all over, “you’re wearing more coats than a child, I’m surprised you can even _move_ in all that.”

“I get cold easily.” He protested, greatly offended.

“Then you probably shouldn’t be a hunter, and I pity anyone who relies on your skills for food.”

“Hang on, when did this conversation become a critique of my hunting abilities, _which you haven’t actually seen.”_

“Around the time you began to criticize our strategy for capturing the Firebird, I assume based on your apparently limited knowledge of hunting.”

Wait, when did it become _our_ strategy? Just that morning Derek had been refusing to have any connection to the plan whatsoever; the other hunters didn’t even know he was out in the woods. He would rather be accidentally shot by one of his own men than be associated with the Firebird search to any degree. And yet, there he was, defending it to a stranger (who, he reminded himself again, was probably a criminal).

(He should probably be constantly reminding himself of that, because he was having very impure thoughts about that mouth and big, bright eyes, and all the ways he could get Stiles to be quiet while also making him scream.)

(Laura was right, he even came off as threatening in his own mind.)

“It only takes basic logic to realize that stalking sprites isn’t the way to find anything in a timely manner, let alone a _mythical bird of legend.”_ Stiles was saying, waving his gloved hands around in mocking and sarcastic jazz hands with a sneering half smile that said he pitied Derek’s intelligence.

Derek rolled his eyes this time, getting his thoughts back on track.

“I wouldn’t try to apply logic to anything about this situation—the kingdom was _cursed,_ there isn’t anything _logical_ about it.”

Stiles just gave him a look.

“I’d apply _some_ logic, if I were you. Do you even know where you are?”

Derek paused, looked around briefly, and realized that no, he did not.

The steady snowfall had covered all familiar scents as well as his own footprints while he’d been standing around wasting time with a probable criminal _(criminal!)_. He’d been more focused on following Stiles’ quick heartbeat than where he was going, and then on refusing to let him get the upper hand in their conversation after that; he didn’t even know where the main path was anymore, let alone the party of royal hunters he knew were moving through the trees somewhere.

“I’m going to take your angry silence as a _no.”_

Derek glared. Somehow Stiles’ crappy and overly confident personality just managed to make him that much more attractive.

“And you do?”

“Duh, I live here.”

_Criminal._

“Outside the walls?” That just served to confirm that fact that Stiles was, most likely, a wanted man (and not like Laura’s lecherous eyebrow wag that flashed through Derek’s mind). It was dangerous in the woods, and too great a risk for anyone who wasn’t desperate to hide something, or equally as dangerous.

“In the general vicinity.” Stiles shrugged, gesturing towards the trees vaguely and then not elaborating at all. “I’ve been here long enough to know what’s where. Seriously, you’re in the middle of nowhere, do you have any idea where you’re going?”

“We’re following an old legend with countless variations,” Derek repeated back what he’d been told when he expressed the same concerns, “we can’t exactly use a map.”

“No, but it’s a lot easier if you know the woods.”

“Let me guess,” Derek was already dreading where this was going, “you do.”

Stiles just smirked, his eyebrows jumping briefly. It didn’t take a genius to work out the endgame of this conversation, and annoyingly, it would be helpful to have a guide of some kind. Even if he was a criminal. Which Stiles probably was. So he shouldn’t come along.

“Would you like to join the search?”

Really? Derek was resigning as soon as they got back to the kingdom, bird or no bird. He was obviously unfit for the job.

Stiles bobbed his head from side to side, making a show of considering the offer and weighing the pros and cons. Derek took the opportunity to stare at him and his moles while he wasn’t looking.

“I guess I could help you out.” He finally shrugged, then added with a wink, “for a small fee.”

Derek snorted and walked away.

*

It was surprisingly easy, walking with Stiles.

Irritating and full of constant chatter, but easy in a way that most interactions Derek had weren’t, with his threatening eyebrows and preference for avoiding people. He didn’t know if it was because Stiles didn’t know he was a noble and therefore had no expectations to be met, or the fact that Stiles was just as bad with people as Derek was, but he was actually kind of having _fun_ out in the middle of nowhere, just to two of them. At least until he reminded himself that they were searching for a _mythical bird of legend_ and also that Stiles was most likely a wanted criminal.

If he just kept reminding himself of that, he would be fine.

But he’d gotten comfortable in the silence of the forest and his own reminders of Stiles’ probable felony charges, letting his and Stiles’ heartbeats and conversation dominate his senses until there was little else around them. The crunching snow under their feet and distant animals were all but forgotten and ignored—which was why he didn’t hear the distinctive crackling of ice forming too fast, steadily getting closer, until the ice sprite was directly behind them, and also why he was _definitely_ resigning as Head of Security if he wasn’t frozen to death in the middle of nowhere.

They were ugly little things, ice sprites. Cold, grey skin that was dry and cracked, sharp jagged features, pale and beady eyes that had an unnerving intensity to them, cragged fangs and wide smiles that split across their faces; it was understandable that Stiles’ heart rate shot up when he turned and saw _that_ hovering just a foot from his face. Even Derek couldn’t help the brief fear seizure his heart had before realizing that his instincts were better than that.

He recovered first from the surprise and shoved Stiles to the side just as the sprite let out a spray of ice shards like a shotgun blast. They thudded into the snow-covered ground and trees, embedding into logs before frost and patterned ice crystals curled out from the point of impact and instantly froze everything it touched. If even one shard hit either of them, there would definitely be an amputation in their future, if not just straight death given how far away from the city they were with no supplies of any kind. Neither of them has prepared to spend more than a few hours in the woods.

The sprite immediately sent out another wave, this time aimed directly at their heads; it was going in for the kill, but Derek didn’t understand _why._ Ice sprites didn’t normally attack this aggressively, especially if they weren’t directly engaged, but he didn’t have enough time really think it through because he had to throw himself down into the snow to avoid being decapitated or getting hit with the _worst_ case of literal brain freeze ever, and drag Stiles down behind him.

He had a feeling Stiles would appreciate the brain freeze comment. He’d have to remember to tell him later.

_If they survived,_ his mind helpfully reminded him as the sprite loomed over them sprawled in the snow, it’s grotesque smile now more of a baring of teeth. It sucked in a long, rattling breath, preparing for the final blow— _which it should not have been even doing, why was it attacking them like this_ —and there was nothing Derek could do to stop it.

_Killed by a sprite that snuck up on him because he was distracted by a crush on a criminal he should’ve just arrested in the fucking first place._

That would be a fitting epitaph for the family cemetery, nestled right between the _died in battle and took an enemy platoon with him_ of his grandfather and the _attacked a gang of hunters to save her children_ of his aunt.

The Hale Legacy.

But the killing blow never came because a figure in a stupid, puffy black coat surged forward from behind Derek and ran at the sprite head on, slamming their palm into the throat of the creature and just holding on. Stiles, Derek realized stupidly, apparently trying to _choke out a being made of an arctic storm come to life with his bare hand._

But it wasn’t freezing over as it should have been—in fact, quite the opposite. It was beginning to glow a brilliant, luminescent red as if he held molten lava in his fingertips. It began to steam next, his unrelenting grip sinking into the icy skin of the sprite until it passed right through and all that remained was a quickly refreezing puddle in the snow. The sprite wasn’t dead, it was impossible to truly kill an element, but it would reform in the spring (if this cursed winter was ever lifted) as a water sprite or something of that slightly less sinister nature.

Stiles just stood for a second, waving his hand around and flexing his fingers like he had a mild cramp from writing for too long and shivering a little, then he turned to look back at Derek. Then he turned a little bit more, frustrated when the quiver of arrows on his back was exactly in his line of sight.

“Are you okay?”

Derek blinked up at him for a second, taking stock of his body ahead of all the questions in his mind.

He looked down at the tight aching pain he found in his right hand and realized that they hadn’t gotten away unscathed after all. His entire gloved hand was frozen almost solid; he couldn’t move it, and he could feel the bitter cold traveling down his fingers into his palm.

_“Oh_ my god, shit, _shit,”_ Stiles had noticed his icy glove as well and was guiding him up and over to sit on a on a dead, fallen tree, pushing his shoulders down with surprising strength until Derek complied and straddled the log.

He was going to lose his hand.

Even werewolves weren’t immune to this extreme all-consuming cold, and there was no way he would be able to get back to the city in time for it to be saved. With enough time, patience, money, and the best doctors on the planet, a werewolf could regrow a limb, it’d been done before, but it was such a labor intensive and expensive process that most just settled for a prosthetic. And in the rare cases that it worked, it was only because they’d started the process immediately, and this far out in the wilderness with only a human, Derek didn’t have that option.

Or, he’d _thought_ Stiles was only a human. The fact that his hand had _instantly melted through an ice sprite_ certainly stated otherwise.

An ice sprite that had gone straight for him without any degree of hesitation, and had only tried to kill Derek when he’d stood in the way.

His mind tripped to a halt as he stared at the man beside him with a new understanding. And also staggering confusion as he poor mind scrambled useless to put together some kind of a coherent thought about the whole thing, because the Firebird wasn’t a bird at all. It was an asshole— _probable criminal_ —with wild eyes and a wicked smirk.

“You’re the Firebird.” He breathed out after a moment.

Stiles didn’t say anything as he pulled Derek’s frozen hand into his lap and carefully pulled off his icy, stiff glove. His hand inside was tinged blue, frost creeping down from his fingertips and into his veins, crawling down his wrist. It _hurt_ —it was an active cold fighting back against his body trying to heal itself, winding around his defenses and even crystallizing on the cuff of his sweater and coat. At least, it hurt until Derek couldn't feel anything, he realized a second later, his entire forearm completely numb from the cold, but he could imagine the sensation of Stiles' long and delicate fingers skating over his skin and pressing down gently, seemingly gauging temperature.

Finally, Derek's poor mind managed to churn out a reaction after several minutes of frankly pathetic laboring and staring, and it was only the most basic protest that he’d come up with.

“But you’re always cold.”

Not his best work.

Stiles snorted softly, keeping focused on his work, whatever he was doing. Derek just kept staring, taking in the _Firebird’s_ features in a whole new light. A new red light, he noticed as the phrase became quite literal. He looked down, following the red hue touching Stiles’ pale skin, and just managed to hold in an incredibly embarrassing gasp.

A red brilliance traced through Stiles’ veins, gathering in his fingertips, and glowing from within as if they held the sun itself, somehow warmer and kinder than the harsh glare from before when he’d melted the sprite.

“Regulating my own temperature is a skill I never quite mastered.” Stiles answered finally, a sardonic smile just visible on his downturned face. “It’s a real bitch in this weather, believe me.”

Derek stared at the red glow reflecting off the ice crystals on his own fingertips, transfixed by what he was seeing. He shouldn’t have been, he was a _werewolf_ and had seen some objectively bizarre things in his life thus far (manticore), but this easily took the top spot, because _Stiles was the Firebird._ There were _legends_ about him; long winding tales of countless people searching for him, tracking glowing feathers over miles of wilderness in hopes of happening across him.

Feathers that Stiles definitely _didn’t_ have, come to think of it.

“But you’re not a…”

“Bird? No,” he laughed, warm and genuinely amused instead of harsh and mocking, “no I’m not.”

Derek paused, unsure of how exactly to phrase his next question.

“Can you…” He chickened out and trailed off instead, fluttering the fingers of his free hand in he wasn’t sure what kind of gesture.

“I can’t turn into one either,” Stiles assured him patiently, still grinning.

“Then why—”

“Am I called the Firebird? No idea. You’ll have to ask whoever came up with that stupid story hundreds of years ago.”

“But you’re not—”

“No, I’m twenty-four.”

Derek paused for a second, waiting until Stiles was distracted by his work again before starting,

“I take it you—”

“Get these questions a lot? Yeah.”

“Could you stop that?” Derek snapped, irritation buzzing through him. People generally didn’t interrupt members of noble families, him in particular given his propensity for staying quietly threatening. Laura especially liked to make grand announcements whenever he contributed to conversation, which she had to realize was counterproductive at best if her goal was to make him want to make idle chit chat more often.

Stiles just smirked up at him like he knew exactly what he was doing before refocusing on Derek’s forearm. The feeling was just prickling back into his fingertips between Stiles’ large and warm hands as he painted heat back onto his skin, a red glow trailing behind in their wake that slowly faded once more.

“Can you,” Derek started, a little hesitant to break the soft quiet they’d fallen into while Stiles worked, but Stiles’ hummed for him to continue, “can you do anything besides this?”

Stiles looked up and considered him for a long moment, and Derek was somewhat surprised to realize that he desperately wanted to pass whatever evaluation Stiles was silently putting him through. But instead of showing any of that eagerness, he simply looked right back at him, taking in his warm brown eyes that narrowed for a fraction of a second and the pink flush of cold that seemed to have spread over his cheeks even further.

   

“I’ve gotten unfortunately good at starting fires.” Stiles answered finally with a shrug.

Derek stared.

He could honestly say that with the intense scrutiny he’d just gone through, he’d been expecting...well, a heartfelt confession, or something along those lines. A tale of how Stiles discovered his powers, some kind of moving story, not— _that._

Stiles glanced up when he didn’t answer and the glow faded from his hands. Derek wanted to whine at the loss of heat, but his own hand had already vastly improved, enough for his werewolf healing to take over.

“What?” Stiles prompted, somewhat testily, after another moment of staring.

“Starting fires?”

He smirked.

“My main party trick is fire, what were you expecting?” He tugged his gloves back on quickly and squeezed his hands between his thighs, hunching in on himself like he was cold. It didn’t make any sense, considering his hands had just done a fairly accurate imitation of glowing embers, but he was shivering now and clenching his jaw to keep it from chattering. He looked up when he noticed Derek still staring.

“Like I said, it’s a real bitch in this weather.”

Derek studied his now-warm hand, then met Stiles’ gaze with an eyebrow raised in confusion. That didn’t make sense or explain anything _at all._

“I can’t just make heat out of nothing, it has to come from somewhere.”

That...still didn’t make much sense.

“It comes from you?” That couldn’t be right; his fingers had been glowing like molten metal, a human body didn’t get that hot, it couldn’t.

“And the heat around me, yeah. It’s easier if I have an open flame to get it from, but I left my lighter at home like an idiot. I’m never going to hear the end of this,” he continued, muttering to himself.

“How?” Derek interrupted, with an incredibly stupid question he regretted the moment he said it. He was a _werewolf_ and even he wasn’t entirely sure of how his body worked, and Stiles gave him an unimpressed look briefly before answering.

“Well, there isn’t exactly a manual I can pick up at the library, and the guy who was _supposed_ to teach me everything died.” He said with righteous indignation, probably assuming Derek thought he was an idiot for not knowing. “From what I remember being told, some people have a spark of magic, and even less have a predisposition to fire and the Firebird title gets passed on to them. And because I’m me,” he moved his shoulders like he was spreading his arms in a wide _ta-da_ gesture, but his hands remained firmly shoved between his thighs, “I drew the short straw.”

Derek had a hard time believing that someone who could _channel fire_ drew a short straw, but alright.

He was also starting to wonder why the hell Stiles had let Derek lead him all over the woods for over five hours, searching for a _bird_ that didn’t exist. In fact, the awe over what Stiles was capable of was quickly fading into irritation, because the kingdom was running out of time and they’d been on a nature hike. _For over five hours._

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Stiles gaped for a second, cocking his head out like he’d misheard.

“Really? That’s not the kind of thing you tell a heavily armed man who’s part of a hunting party looking for you for seriously sketchy reasons, I mean, _lift the curse,”_ he waved his hands around to fully mock Derek’s voice then jammed them back between his thighs, “what does that even mean?”

Fair enough.

“Then why did you come with me?”

“To maybe get more information?” He snapped. “Curiosity? Boredom? It’s winter, there isn’t much entertainment around here. I’ve been itching for something to do.” It was a complete lie, but Derek didn’t push it for the moment, not wanting to shatter the careful trust they’d built over the day and potentially ruin everything.

“Then will you come back with me and hear us out?”

Stiles squinted at him, then said like it had been stated previously and ignored, “No.”

Derek bit back a groan of frustration. He couldn’t say he’d been expecting Stiles to jump at the opportunity, but maybe a little hesitation before flat out refusing would’ve been nice. At least maybe get some of that information he’d said he wanted.

“Is saving the kingdom from frozen ruin not enough entertainment for you?”

“I don’t find being captured by the Argents particularly entertaining.”

Of all the reasons Derek had thought it could possibly be, that definitely wasn’t one of them.

“Why would you be captured?”

“What do you think happened to the guy who was supposed to teach me about this?” He stood, probably preparing to part ways and burn off Derek’s face with his bare hands if he tried to follow. “He got outed and King Gerard’s men grabbed him from his bed in the middle of the night. I’m not naive enough to believe the same wouldn’t happen to me.”

And that certainly explained why Stiles lived in the middle of the woods like a criminal rather than within the safety of the city (and Derek was _not_ going to linger on the fact that his entire argument around not being attracted to Stiles was his probable criminal record that no longer existed), but that systematic capture of anything not totally human had ended with King Gerard months ago. Word had already spread that Beacon Hills was a safe place and that supernaturals were, at the very least tolerated if not entirely accepted, and it was getting better every day as more emigrated from the surrounding woods. There certainly would never be unjust mass captures under King Christopher, Derek could say that much.

The man had hired a werewolf as Head of Security for his family, something Derek constantly had to repeat to himself to truly believe sometimes.

“If you help us, I can guarantee your safety and freedom.” Derek blurted out before Stiles got too far away.

Stiles paused and turned, not looking like he believed Derek for a second.

“And who are you that you can promise such a thing, _Derek?”_ There was an emphasis on his name that confirmed Derek’s suspicions that his introduction of _just call me Derek_ hadn’t been inconspicuous in the least. “I told you my deep dark secret, I think it’s only fair you do the same.”

“I’m Head of Security for the royal family,” Stiles just nodded like he hadn’t expected any less, throwing up a hand like he was done with the entire situation. Derek didn’t want him to be done, he wanted him to come back to Beacon Hills with him. “I can protect you and make sure you’re free to go once all this is over.”

“Well my parents left the city to protect me, Derek. They knew I would be next and we ran. I’m not going to throw away everything they went through for me and just walk right back into the Argents’ court.” He turned like he was about to stalk off, then whipped back around to add, _“with_ their Head of Security, to boot.”

“You came with me this far.”

“And you thought you were looking for an actual bird. Trust me, I wasn’t in danger.”

Yeah, Derek was trying really hard to ignore the fact that the entire team of hunters, the best in the kingdom and highly decorated, were combing the forest for a large, possibly glowing bird described as vaguely resembling a peacock. Maybe they would all be able to laugh about this at some point in the future.

“What were you planning on doing when we didn’t find a bird?”

Stiles shrugged, looking entirely unconcerned with that prospect.

“Give you a pat on the back and take off, probably? I wasn’t really thinking that far ahead.”

“Well that was incredibly stupid.” Derek responded instead of saying _that would’ve hurt a lot even though I’ve known you for all of six hours._

“Nice, insulting the guy you’re asking to risk his life to help you, excellent strategy.”

“You won’t be in any danger in the city, things have changed.”

“Somehow, I don’t quite believe you, Head of Royal Security. Or do you have another big secret up your seasonably inappropriate, thin sleeves?”

“I get hot easily.” Derek tossed back Stiles’ earlier words with a smirk.

Stiles didn’t look nearly as amused as Derek thought he’d be.

“If you want me to help you, I’m going to need a little more than vague promises and thinly veiled puns. I don’t know _why_ it’s a pun, but I know a pun when I hear one.”

Why did it never go well when Derek tried to be funny?

“Fine. I’m a werewolf.”

Stiles blinked.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m a werewolf and I’m Head of Security. Things have changed.”

Derek could hear Stiles’ fast heartbeat while he thought things over, no doubt debating pros and cons with himself, his nervous energy filling the clearing they stood in. If he said no, Derek had half a mind to just throw him over his shoulder and take him anyway, kicking and screaming and probably burning him the entire way there.

“Alright, I’ll check it out.” Stiles decided finally, which was lucky because Derek really didn’t want handprints burned into his back. “But if anyone so much as thinks of stopping me from leaving, I’ll burn it all down, and your stupid peacoat too.”

This time it was Derek’s turn to look down at his clothes, bewildered by what just happened.

“It’s less than ten degrees out,” Stiles exclaimed, the words bursting out like he’d been holding them in for hours (and he probably had), “you make me cold just looking at you!”

“I said I get hot easily. Werewolves generate a lot of heat.” He couldn’t help sounding a little smug, even though he was usually complaining about being hot and hated it more than anything.

“Yeah, yeah, stop bragging.” Stiles muttered bitterly as they started to walk in the direction that Beacon Hills _probably_ was, still absentmindedly rubbing his gloved hands together and shivering occasionally. He looked just barely warmer than he had after fixing Derek’s hand.

Before he could second guess himself or revert to his reminders of Stiles’ probable criminal record (he would be checking on that when they returned; he had to  _at least_ have shoplifted or  _something_ , because this was inappropriate), Derek tugged off his right glove and held out his hand.

“Hey, put that away!” Stiles knocked it away with his elbow, refusing to unclasp his hands, “I just finished putting all that heat back in, and that is a once-a-month kind of deal, so if that turns blue again, you’re on your own.”

“I run even warmer than most werewolves.” Derek explained patiently and kept his hand out, waiting for Stiles to shut up and take it.

It didn’t take long; moments later he pulled off his left glove and accepted Derek’s offer, his hand pale and shaking a little from the cold.

Derek couldn’t help the brief instinct to yank away—against his own hot skin, Stiles’ palm felt like a handful of ice—but he just gripped a little tighter and jammed their joined hands into his large pocket, already warm from his body heat.

“Oh my _god,”_ Stiles moaned with feeling, holding on tighter and trying to reach even further into the pocket while Derek tried to not think about that moan in absolutely any other context (he failed), “if this is what you’re always like, I’m officially kidnapping you forever. I’ll never be cold again.”

Whether he realized it or not, he was drifting closer, bumping up against Derek’s arm like he could crawl right into the warmth with their joined hands.

“Actually, I’ve decided this can be my payment for helping you find the Firebird.”

“Considering _you’re_ the Firebird, that sounds like a scam you shouldn’t be pulling on the Head of Security for the royal family.”

He could practically feel Stiles rolling his eyes, hunched down by his shoulder.

“Fine, it’s payment for saving your stupid kingdom and your stupid job title, but I will take this by force if I have to. I demand a lifetime supply.”

Derek really couldn’t find it in himself to even pretend to refuse the offer.

*

A week later, when Stiles had lifted the curse and irreversibly insinuated himself in Derek’s life, Derek realized that wasn’t much of a price to pay at all. In fact, with Stiles curled up in his side, dozing lightly and recharging under—at last count—six blankets, and sapping the heat from both him and the nearby roaring fire (and keeping the bed at a perfect spring morning temperature that Derek could _definitely_ get used to), he realized just how well that offer worked out after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://andavs.tumblr.com)


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